


Turbulence

by Mount_Seleya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1895 Words, Airplane Sex, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Bottom Sherlock, Crack, Dominant John, M/M, Mile High Club, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, PWP, Rough Sex, Sherlock is a Brat, Top John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets bored on a long-haul flight. John has the perfect solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turbulence

Huffing out a petulant sigh, Sherlock shimmies his arse forward, drawing his long legs up until he's twisted into a curl, shins pressed to the back of the seat in front of him and knees bracketing the dandruffy scalp peeking over its top. Another high, stuttering snore saws into his eardrums, bringing a fresh blast of halitosis with it.  
  
 _Used-car salesman from Leeds. Recently divorced. Won big on a scratchcard and squandered it all in Vegas._  
  
Directly across the aisle, a squat, blonde woman with thick black spectacles is listening to an audiobook, her manicured fingernails drumming out an idle rhythm on the hard grey plastic of her lowered seat-back tray. Three rows up, someone is eating a packet of crisps, the _rustle_ - _crunch_ - _rustle_ - _crunch_ just barely audible to Sherlock's ears. With nothing to do, Sherlock's brain has become a sponge, sopping up all the useless data cluttering the cabin. Deductions unfold with autonomic ease, his mind spinning, spinning, spinning like tyres stuck in mud.  
  
"Enjoying a sulk, are we?" John remarks, snapping his book shut and turning to look at Sherlock.  
  
"I imagine that insufficient legroom is an entirely alien concept to a man of your stature," Sherlock retorts.  
  
"We wouldn't be sitting in bloody economy if you hadn't cheesed off your brother."  
  
"He should've known better than to send me halfway across the globe for a case that even you could've solved."  
  
Suddenly, John's left hand sneaks between Sherlock's thighs, cups his groin in a warm palm and squeezes. Sherlock's head smacks the headrest. His breath hitches, then rushes out in a sharp, shuddery exhalation.  
  
Leaning in closer to Sherlock, John whispers, "How about some proper in-flight entertainment? Hmm?"  
  
" _Not fair_ ," Sherlock hisses through clenched teeth, his legs sliding down the back of the seat in front of him. Feet now planted firmly on the floor, he jerks his pelvis upwards, grinding his crotch into the glorious press of John's hand. He feels his cock twitch inside of his trousers, feels the hot, tingling surge of blood beginning to fill his flesh. John's thumb traces the shape of his growing erection, and he bites his bottom lip to stifle a groan, his eyes slipping shut.  
  
"You don't get to whinge about fairness, you insufferable dick," John growls into Sherlock's ear. Sliding his palm beneath the cloth-clad bulge of Sherlock's groin, he skims his middle finger down, rubs it right over Sherlock's hole. "Three bloody hours of interrogation because some _genius_ tried to smuggle a jar of human eyes in my suitcase."  
  
"I said I was sorry, John," Sherlock insists, his voice a ragged blend of irritated and desperate.  
  
"Oh, you're going to be sorry, all right," John snarls, his breath puffing warmly against Sherlock's ear. He ceases kneading lazy little circles with his finger, jabs up with sudden, brutal force, making Sherlock's hole give slightly.  
  
Sherlock mewls, a tiny, pathetic noise of capitulation, his hands shaking as they clutch at the armrests of his seat.  
  
"Now, you're going to get up, walk down to the lavatory, and _wait_ ," John tells him in a deadly-soft hush. "Is that clear?"  
  
The commanding tone sends a sweet thrill slithering up Sherlock's spine to coil around the animal segment of his brain. "God, yes," he breathes, deep and rough, his eyes peeling open as he feels John withdraw his hand and shift away. Lolling his head around, he meets John's lust-dark gaze, catches the swift sweep of a pink tongue across thin lips.  
  
Sherlock rises from his seat, stumbles out into the aisle, every movement a reminder of his now too-tight trousers. Hazarding a glance at the blonde woman, he finds her eyeing him sidelong, a sly smirk curving her mouth. One earbud is hovering in mid-air, suspended between pinched fingers, but she quickly jams it back in place and looks away.  
  
For a moment, Sherlock falters, his cheeks blazing. Then he turns around, strides purposefully down the aisle past two rows of passengers scrunched up in uneasy slumber, and slips into the second of two lavatories.  
  
Straddling the small, grey toilet, he flattens his left hand against the fold-down changing station above. With his right hand, he unzips his trousers, yanks them down along with his pants just enough to expose the pert swell of his arse. He reaches back, ghosts the pad of his middle finger over the pucker of his anus, then slowly pushes the digit inside. Finds himself still slick and open from his furtive preparations earlier in a stall in the men's lavatory at the airport.  
  
"Oh, God," he gasps as he works in a second finger, begins sliding both digits in and out.  
  
A moment later, the door clicks shut behind Sherlock, and he cranes his head around to see John engage the lock. Their eyes meet for a heated instant, and then John's gaze drops, drinks in the sight of Sherlock fingering himself. He darts his tongue out, swipes it across his lower lip hungrily, his night-blue eyes flicking up to pin Sherlock once more.  
  
"You rotten little _shit_ ," John spits, undoing his zip and pulling out his cock. "You were counting on this, weren't you?"  
  
Sherlock snorts. He extracts his fingers and grabs a tissue from the adjacent counter. Gives his hand a perfunctory cleaning as John fumbles for the condom stashed in his back pocket and rips open the packet with a metallic crinkle. "Seems you were counting on it, too," he says, letting the used tissue flutter down into the toilet bowl.  
  
John's left hand flashes forward, connecting with Sherlock's right arse cheek with a solid, meaty _thwack_. Sherlock yelps, feeling the prickly heat of a handprint rising on his skin, and a delightful quiver radiates through his body.  
  
"Eyes front," John commands, recalling his hand to the task of rolling the condom down onto his prick.  
  
Jerking his head around, Sherlock braces both hands on the changing station, spreads his legs until his black shoes are straining against the side walls and bends his knees to bring his arse down into alignment with John's cock. He stops when he feels the glans bump against him, and John's hands clamp around his hips, holding him steady.  
  
John smears the head of his prick up the cleft of Sherlock's arse, aided by the slippery mixture of sweat and tacky, half-dried lube clinging to his skin, until his entire length is nestled hot and thick between Sherlock's cheeks. "This is going to be so sweet," he intones, tracing his thumbs over the crests of Sherlock's hipbones in minute whirls.  
  
" _John_ ," Sherlock urges, the name shuddering out breathlessly, and then John's cock glides back down to his hole. Nudges against it until the glans pops inside and Sherlock's muscles hug the shaft just under the frenulum. John lingers there, tormenting him with the promise of deeper penetration, until at last a needy whimper spills out of him.  
  
Fingers biting bruises into the milk-pale skin of Sherlock's hips, John sinks home in a smooth, protracted slide. He groans long and deep, and Sherlock feels a shivery, galvanic frisson chase up his spine and jangle through his nerves at the raw carnality of the sound.  
  
"Oh, _fuck_ ," John gasps. "Oh, Jesus, Sherlock. So good. Always so good. You take my prick so beautifully."  
  
"I suppose this makes it three continents and international airspace for you," Sherlock quips, pressing his arse back.  
  
John lets out a harsh, guttural growl, his hips ebbing and crashing forward again. Sherlock swallows a shout, scrabbling for purchase as John sets a punishing tempo, his long-fingered hands fanning wide on the changing station. Locking his knees, he screws his eyes closed, struggles to bear the force of every hard, merciless thrust.  
  
"Could've been four continents if you hadn't blueballed me all week," John grits out, ramming into Sherlock's prostate.  
  
Tiny white starbursts explode behind Sherlock's eyelids. Pleasure sizzles through his body like an electric shock, and he clamps his jaw shut tighter, his teeth gnashing together as he fights to contain a delighted holler. Over and over, John batters the magic spot inside him, and Sherlock bucks his arse back, wild with the need for harder, faster, _more_. "Please, John," he whines, blood-heavy cock bobbing with the rhythmic snap of John's hips. "Oh, God, _please_."  
  
"Only way I can get you to ask nicely, isn't it, stuffing your greedy little arse full of prick?" John snarls.  
  
Warm fingers fold around Sherlock's aching length, tug him rough and sure, and he lets out a rumbling moan. The stroke of John's hand twines in Sherlock's brain with the ruthless drive of John's cock, melds into a white-hot haze of bliss, until he comes with a strangled gasp of John's name, his seed spurting out in white ropes and spattering the wall.  
  
John rides Sherlock through the orgasm, knifing into him with vicious thrusts, his hand an unrelenting blur. Then he stiffens and stills, docking his cock deep in Sherlock's clutching heat with one final, hard plunge. "Jesus, yes, fuck, Sherlock, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ," he curses in a breathless growl, and Sherlock feels his cock pulse the staccato metre of ejaculation.  
  
A few seconds later, Sherlock shatters the afterglow, telling John, "The stewardess is due to make her rounds any minute."  
  
John disengages from Sherlock's body with a wet squelch. Sherlock winces, feeling his sore, swollen hole pull closed. Unbowing his back, he hitches his trousers up his hips, fastens the zip as John shifts about efficiently behind him. Then he reaches over, seizes a handful of tissues, and wipes the evidence of his release from the wall.  
  
Suddenly, John's arms loop around Sherlock's waist, the side of his face pressing warmly between his scapulae. "That was the filthiest shag I've ever had," he confesses in a soft voice. "But I'm still rather cross with you."  
  
"Good," Sherlock says simply, letting the tissues drop into the toilet so that he can cup his hand over John's.  
  
They tarry for a moment that seems to stretch on forever, then John retreats, shutting the door after him with a _snick_.  
  
Sherlock bends to flush away the tissues. Unstraddles the toilet and turns to face his reflection in the mirror. His soft, loose curls are plastered to his forehead by sweat, and there's a vivid flush suffusing the sharp cut of his cheekbones. He looks thoroughly debauched, or else highly contagious, neither of which bodes well on an aeroplane.  
  
Washing his hands hurriedly, Sherlock exits the lavatory, makes his way back down the aisle to their row. A stinging flare of pain shoots up his spine as his arse hits the seat, and he sucks in a hissing breath, fidgets back and forth for a few seconds in a desperate bid to find a comfortable position before determining that it's futile.  
  
John turns to look at Sherlock, offering him a small, lopsided grin. He rests his right hand atop Sherlock's left thigh, squeezes lightly in a way that Sherlock intuitively knows is one part possession, one quiet gratitude.  
  
"Did they check inside that twee souvenir statue you got for your sister?" Sherlock hazards a moment later.  
  
" _Jesus Christ_ ," John hisses, face darkening with anger. "What the hell have you got hidden in it?"  
  
"Oh, just a few rather interesting toes I managed to nick, all properly suspended in a preservative solution, of course."


End file.
